England strode into the room, muttering words that cannot be repeated here, as he tried to fight back the tears that threatened to blur his vision. He crossed his arms, trying to protect himself from...well, himself. But once again, he failed.
The memories...they keep coming back...screw memories…
His arm swung out violently, knocking down an entire row of picture frames, albums, and a series of large boxes. He gasped as he heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking, and knelt down to gingerly turn each picture frame over. England paused, and his breath caught in his throat, as he realized that he had broken that picture.
That picture. With England and America. Happy. For once.
Tears streamed down his face, as he observed that he had not only broken the frame, but mutilated the picture inside. America was fine, but England now had two identical, large gashes running down from his cheeks to the bottom of his neck. The United Kingdom of Great Britain was now huddled in a corner, sobbing quietly to himself. He was reminiscing in those glory days, the days where his happiness had existed. Those days were gone now, and they would never come back. And he realized this. He grabbed his bottle of rum, and slung it to his mouth. The whole thing was finished in a couple of seconds, a new record, even for him.
He doesn't need me. He never did. All I was was a burden.
He hiccuped as the thought chained itself into his mind.
I'm still a burden, aren't I?
He grasped at the pictures, trying to tell himself otherwise. But every picture said the same; he was, and is, useless.
Not for long...
The thought came to him bitterly, and for the first time since the incident, Britain smiled to himself as he began to burn himself out of the pictures.
Whereishewhereishewhereishewhereishe?!
France's mind screamed at him to hurry up, making him push his legs to the point where he thought they would break. His heart was pounding, telling him to stop, to slow down, but France did not. He ran right down to the end of that hallway, right up to that door. This one was too thick to break down, and France prayed that Angleterre had failed to lock it this time. His prayers were not answered, however; and the door remained firm and unmoving as France pounded, frantically against it.
England was standing in front of the mirror, a shard of glass gripped tightly in his left hand.
I've got to match the picture. It's the only one I have left. Now, left side first.
Using the mutilated picture to guide him, England coaxed the shard of glass over his neck, cutting not very deeply, but not very lightly, either. The left side of his face was beginning to match the picture.
Crimson is such a beautiful color. Adds a nice...splash of color to this drab house, don't you think?
Yes, yes, it is a beautiful color, now carry on, and do the other side.
The shard positioned itself in England's right hand, and began to drape smoothly across the right side of his neck.
There we go-
"ANGLETERRE! ANGLETERRE! OPEN THIS DOOR! OUVRIR! OUVRIR! OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN IT!"
What is that voice...sounds so familiar...Oh! It must be France! Hold on, I'm almost done…
England smiled tiredly at the mirror. Perfect. Now, what did that Frenchman want? He trudged over to the door.
You know, I'm feeling very sleepy...I should take a nap after this.
Yeah...I'll take a nap...once I open the door…
He pulled it open, undoing the locks agonizingly slowly. He opened the door, and smiled.
"Oh, hello, France, what do you want?"
And then, promptly passed out.
France watched in horror as the door swung open, revealing a very bloody Englishman on the verge of passing out.
MERDE. What did he do to himself?!
"Oh, hello, France, what do you want?"
The French nation stared in disbelief as the Englishman smiled, tiredly.
HE'S DYING AND HE'S SMILING?!
He was snapped back to reality, as he watched the mutilated man topple over, swooping in just in time to cradle his head before it crashed onto the floor.
"A-Angleterre?", the French nation stuttered, his voice failing him.
Mon dieu! WhatdoIdowhatdoIdoWhatdoIdo?!
His voice screamed frantically in his mind, pushing him into the verge of screaming.
Rightrightright. Get help. Call an ambulance!
His other hand seemed to act on his own, snapping open his cell phone, slipping, and sliding his fingers over the right keys. The Brit's eyes were still blank, and he was unresponsive to anything the Frenchman did.
Hold on, hold on, hold on, Angleterre, we're almost there. Hold on, they're coming.
America blinked in disbelief as he looked at the caller ID scrolling across his cell phone.
France? He usually leaves me alone on this day…Oh well! Everyone loves the hero!
He flipped open his phone, barking a loud "'Sup!", as he waited to find out just what was so important that it interrupted him in the middle of a particularly interesting beer-drinking contest. It was almost his turn, and his anticipation nearly killed him.
I'm going to beat everyone, because I'M THE HERO!
"AMERIQUE! GETTOTHEHOSPITALFASTANGLETERREISDYINGHURRYUP!"
What is that crazy guy saying?
"Woah, dude, slow down!", the obnoxious American laughed rather loudly. "You sound like that Brit when he's ranting about his fairies!"
He was a bit surprised when he heard the Frenchman snarl at the other end of the line.
""That Brit" is in the hospital right now, Amerique, you crétin! Hurry up and get over here!"
W-What? Britain's in the h-hospital?
The American fumbled with his phone, trying to stop it from falling out of his rigid hands.
W-WHAT?! He can't be hurt, he's Britain…
His mind roared at him to hurry up and move his feet, but not before he answered France. "ALRIGHT, I'LL BE THERE RIGHT NOW!", he roared into his phone. The screen cracked as he carelessly tossed his cell phone aside, and fumbled for the keys in his pocket.
Hold on, Britain, the hero is coming.